Читать книгу One Night in the Orient - Robyn Donald - Страница 8

SIENA eyed her blue dress—a little tired after its outing the previous night, but it was all she had. Nick had somehow managed to overcome her instinctive need to hide away like a wounded animal—aided by her realisation that she’d be better off in his powerful, formidable presence than sitting alone in her hotel room wondering why her only two serious relationships had ended with the men she loved—or thought she loved—leaving her.

That bitter feeling of alienation chilled her. She struggled with the impulse to tear off her clothes and crawl into bed. It wouldn’t work—if she knew one thing about Nick it was that he was determined. One way or another, he’d get her out of her room.

Anyway, self-pity was a loser’s indulgence.

But the prospect of eating anything made her feel sick, a nausea that escalated when the lift started to take her down.

When she saw Nick, darkly dominant and looking more than a little grim, she managed a smile. He didn’t return it. Head held high, she parried his keen scrutiny and a strange alteration to her heartbeat transmuted into racing pulses and a moment of lightness, of keen anticipation.

“I only brought one going-out-to-dinner outfit,” she told him. Heavens, was that her voice—husky and almost hesitant?

Get a grip, she ordered.

“So? You look charming,” he said calmly, and took her arm. “I suppose you travelled with nothing more than hand luggage?”

Rills of sensation ran from his fingers to her spine, spreading out through every cell in a gentle flood. Almost she shivered, and it took a considerable amount of self-control to respond in the easy tone of one old friend to another, “Afraid not. I expected to be here for a week, and as it’s winter on this side of the equator I had to pack warm clothes. I don’t have a home in every capital, with wardrobes full of clothes made specially for me.”

“Neither do I,” he said crisply, nodding to the doorman.

“Just about.”

He gave her a saturnine smile. “I own two dwellings.”

“Which one do you call home?”

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but he said finally, “The one in Auckland.”

Strangely that warmed her as Nick guided her into the waiting car.

Once inside he turned to her. “Apart from your friend’s news, did you have a good day?”

“Most of it was great, thank you.” She made him laugh, relating a small incident in a park involving an elderly dowager and a small child, and slowly her tension subsided.

She even thought bracingly, I can do this. I can stay in one piece long enough to last out the evening.

Once she got herself onto a plane she could shatter if she needed to. Nobody would know her, so nobody would care if she spent the whole trip in glum silence.

But first she had to get her ticket changed.

Nick said, “I called my PA while you were dressing. There’s a possibility of an immediate trip back to New Zealand. She might ring while we’re having dinner.”

“Oh—Nick, that’s kind of you, but you didn’t need to.” She glanced at his unsmiling face, and ignored a vagrant shiver down her spine when his lashes drooped. “Your poor PA—she’s probably muttering oaths under her breath.”

“I doubt it. She’s paid well, worth every penny, and accustomed to being on call whenever I need her.”

Siena imagined a prim, super-efficient middle-aged woman, silently and hopelessly in love with her employer. “At night?” she asked without trying to hide her scepticism. “Obviously she has no family.”

“On the contrary, she has two small children.” Nick went on smoothly, “Her husband is the housekeeper in that home.”

Siena digested this in silence. “Very modern.”

“It works for them. You’d probably like them—they’re an interesting couple.”

Absently Siena nodded, but said, “Won’t she need my ticket number and other information? You should have told me at the hotel and I could have got it for you.”

“If she does, tomorrow morning will be soon enough.”

By then the car was slowing down in a quiet street flanked on either side by rows of lovely Georgian houses.

Siena gazed through the vehicle window with appreciation. “If anyone had asked me, I’d have said you’d choose an ultra-modern penthouse in a tower block.”

“I prefer this.”

“Who wouldn’t?” She gave a wry smile. “Actually, it suits you—very studied, very controlled.” And gorgeous … “I can see you as a Regency buck, driving your phaeton and four up to the door.”

“I’d have to check, but I suspect phaetons only had two horses,” he said.

“Trust you to know that,” she said on a half-laugh.

One brow lifted, he looked down at her. “Why?”

“When we first met you Gemma and I decided you knew everything important in the world.”

His beautiful mouth quirked. “Six years’ difference in age can do that. Growing up must have meant sad disillusion for you both.”

He stopped, and for a moment she thought she saw something like regret darken his eyes. Was he remembering that he’d had a hand in shattering more than a few of her illusions?

Probably not. Turning her head so he couldn’t see her face, she pretended to examine the street, serene and gracious in the light of the lamps.

Even at nineteen she’d been worldly-wise enough to know that the link between them was fragile and not likely to last. The knowledge hadn’t prevented her heartbreak, but at least Nick had never made any promises to her.

She shouldn’t have come with him. When she could trust her voice she said steadily, “Disillusion happens to everyone.”

“To those who still have illusions,” he said, his voice hard and level. “Siena—”

He stopped, his mouth thinning as the car drew up in front of a flight of steps leading to an impressive door.

Right then Siena would have given everything she owned to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The very last thing she wanted from him was an apology for his behaviour five years ago.

Once inside the building she gazed around with undisguised interest and quickly, before he could say any more, said, “Nick, this is lovely.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

The graceful drawing room was furnished with an aura of elegant restraint that echoed her host’s vital, coolly self-disciplined authority. The decorator had married antique and modern pieces with flair and style.

“Whoever did this knew you very well,” she said without thinking.

He ignored the comment. “I think you need an aperitif. Still Sauvignon Blanc?”

“Yes, thank you.” It had been years since she’d told him how much she enjoyed that particular wine, and she was surprised and strangely cheered that he remembered.

It was a New Zealand white, crisp and delicious, and after the first sip she set the glass down and looked at him. That odd kick in her heartbeat startled her again. “You can take the Kiwi out of New Zealand …” she teased.

His smile was a little narrow. “I like other wines as well, but this seemed appropriate for tonight. Here’s to your happiness. Why aren’t you wearing your engagement ring?”

Siena flinched, her gaze falling to her empty finger. Adrian hadn’t stayed around for long, she thought on a spurt of anger. A thin line of slightly paler skin revealed that she’d been wearing the ring for only a short time.

It was still in her hotel room. When she’d enquired about the cost of sending it back, the insurance had been so much she’d been unable to afford it.

It took a lot of willpower to meet Nick’s green eyes, but she parried their unsparing assessment with head held high. She wouldn’t lie to him.

Straightening her shoulders, she said briefly, “When I got back to my room in the hotel there was an email from my fiancé telling me he’d found someone else.”

The base of Nick’s glass made a sharp little clink as he set it down on the nearest table. He strode towards her, his expression formidably angry. “An email?” he demanded incredulously.

Clutching her glass, she nodded, unable to articulate her tumbling thoughts.

Nick opened his mouth, then closed it again, biting back words she was glad she didn’t have to hear. He took her glass and set it down, then drew her towards him. On an uneven sigh Siena let herself relax into the strong arms enfolding her. Her forehead came to rest on a powerfully muscled shoulder as he stroked slowly across her back in soothing, potently comforting movements.

Siena dragged in several more ragged breaths and abandoned herself to the simple relief of being held.

In a cold, uncompromising voice he said, “Cry if you want to.”

“I don’t,” she said, blinking back ferocious tears. If she cried it would be because Nick was being so kind—in a brotherly way, of course, she reminded herself drearily.

Well, that was all right.

Still in that formidable tone he said, “It’s too early to say this, but anyone who would break off an engagement by email is someone you don’t need in your life.”

And when she stayed silent he added, “Not now and not ever.”

She nodded. “I know,” she muttered. “It’s all right. I’m not going to crack up.”

“I didn’t expect you to. Not you.”

Something melted deep inside her. The warmth of his embrace and the lithe power and strength of his support—entirely lacking in sensuality—gave her strength. Her taut muscles loosened, became freer, her breaths evening out so that the sobs she dreaded didn’t come to fruition.

Slowly—so slowly she had no idea what was happening—the wave of misery receded. Yet still she didn’t pull away, and Nick didn’t drop his arms.

At first without realising it, she began to respond to the soothing movement of his hand across her back. Her body stirred, sending secret, unsuspected signals that blossomed into a tantalising awareness, an insidious pleasure that sang through her in heady invitation.

A shiver of mixed anticipation and apprehension shocked her into pulling back. Instantly he released her and stepped away, examining her with the burnished gaze that successfully hid his thoughts.

Hot shame rushed through Siena. Rushing into speech she said, “Thanks.” And managed to sketch a smile. “You should have had sisters—you make a great brother.”

His brows lifted, and the smile he gave in return was sardonic. “Any time you need a fraternal shoulder, just let me know,” he said, drawling the words with an intonation that deepened her flush.

“I hope I never do again.” Her voice was pitched too high. Avoiding his glance, she picked up her wine glass.

Fine tremors shook her hand, and she hoped he couldn’t see the shimmer across the surface of the liquid when she lifted it to her lips. After the smallest of sips she set the glass back down again in case he’d noticed.

But he was looking at his watch. Immediately, as if he’d somehow summoned her, a woman appeared with a tray of small savouries. Nick introduced her as his housekeeper and when she’d gone he ordered, “Have something to eat. You’re as pale as a ghost.”

Obviously he hadn’t felt anything like that heady, sensuous connection. He probably hadn’t even realised what his closeness was doing to her.

Thank heavens. “Hadn’t you noticed I’m always pale?” she said crisply. “Although I prefer to think of myself as ethereally fair.”

His half-smile told her he knew what she was doing. “Ethereal? Not with devil-black curls and that smart mouth. I have to leave you—I’ll be no more than five minutes. When I come back I want to see several of those savouries eaten.”

Siena glowered balefully after him as he left the room, but although she wasn’t hungry the little mouthfuls of food looked delicious and smelt divine. Almost without thinking, she picked one up and nibbled, trying to sort out her thoughts and her odd reactions.

She was over Nick. Had been for years. She no longer even wanted to know why he’d made love to her with such wild tenderness, then left her with nothing more than an abrupt and angry statement that he’d lost his head and he was sorry.

As well as showing her how passionate she could be, Nick had hurt her—damaged her in a way she hadn’t understood or recognised until that moment. Unwittingly she must have vowed never to allow herself to feel so intensely again.

It had taken all her will, but she’d eventually managed to put him behind her and get on with her life. She’d met someone safe—someone she’d been sure would never cause her the pain Nick had.

She winced. Was that really why she’d chosen Adrian? Surely her love for him hadn’t been a mirage, desperately conjured by memories of the dark sorcerer who’d shown her passion and joy and then abandoned her to a world without either?

If so—if she’d let her misery at Nick’s rejection make the choice for her—perhaps Adrian had sensed it.

What weird power did Nick have that just being held in his sexless embrace roused a long-repressed hunger?

OK, so the day had flung a couple of nasty surprises at her—well, one shock and one disappointment—leaving her off-balance, stranded and short of money on the other side of the world from home. She’d been worried, but she’d have managed.

Then Nick had arrived. Being Nick, he’d taken over and.

And what?

In his aloofly controlled way he’d been protective and kind—clearly signalling that he was doing his duty to the couple who’d helped him when he was young and more vulnerable.

The soft sound of the door made her look up sharply. Her stomach dropped as Nick came in, black brows almost meeting across his nose.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

The frown smoothed out. “My question, I think. You look shell-shocked.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

“And so am I.” He examined her face, then said with a touch of irony, “All right, I’ve just had a conversation with my PA that means I have to rearrange my schedule. It’s no big deal.”

Without preamble she said, “I used to resent you when I was a kid.”

He looked across at her, his brows slightly raised. “I know. You always wanted to come with us when your father and I went off to the various sports and games he introduced me to.”

“I must have been a brat.”

“Not exactly that,” he said dryly. “You were an uncompromising little thing, and very determined. I got used to thunderous frowns, black looks, pouting—”

“I never pouted!”

“You did, and very cutely. I didn’t blame you.”

“Generous of you,” she said with a wry smile. And because she’d always wondered, she asked, “How did you find yourself being Dad’s protégé?”

His expression tightened, but he spoke easily enough. “After my own father died I became hard to handle. My mother was desperate enough to contact an organisation that helped fatherless boys, one your father had volunteered for. We clicked.”

He stopped, then went on almost harshly, “I owe him an immense debt. When I decided to go out on my own in IT he couldn’t afford to back me financially, but he introduced me to people who could, and he gave me both intellectual and moral support.”

Very moved, she said, “That’s quite a tribute. But you did something for him too, you know. You were the son he never had.”

“I hope so,” he said, in a tone that came close to being dismissive, as if he’d said too much. “Dinner’s ready now if you are.”

Siena had been satisfied by the two small savouries she’d eaten, but the wine was making its effects felt. She felt disconnected, the raw shock of Adrian’s rejection lightly blanketed by a buzz in her head that told her she needed food.

Stubbornly she forced herself to eat, but halfway through the main course she stopped, shivering, and the words she’d been trying to get out refused to come. Horrified, she froze.

“You’re probably still jet-lagged, and in shock,” Nick said abruptly, getting to his feet. “You can stay the night here.”

“No, I—”

He interrupted curtly, “You need rest. And you’re in no fit state to be on your own. I’ll get a bed made up for you and tomorrow morning we can discuss what you’ll do.”